


Tremulous and Tender

by ponderinfrustration



Series: Luckless Romance [2]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hallucinations, Interstitial, Kay!verse, Pharoga if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 14:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5932372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is here, so soft and warm. Then the world tilts and she slips away and he can't breathe.</p>
<p>Erik is dying. And try as he may, but there is nothing that Nadir can do about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tremulous and Tender

Her body is so soft next to him, the swell of her breasts and hips, legs wrapped around his own. His fingers curve around one soft breast, its delicate weight falling into his palm so that it almost isn’t there and he almost isn’t touching it. The skin of her forehead is so smooth beneath his lips. He shifts them gently against her temple, the fragility of her a bolt of longing in his heart, her breaths warm against his neck. It is so nice to have her here like this, to be able to feel her so close. He never thought it could ever happen, and he nuzzles her hair now, just holding on to her. (He must keep holding on. He must. Letting her go will tear her away, tear her apart, and he cannot have that, cannot let it happen. So he holds as close as he can, and bathes in the feel of her, and forgets the tears that bead his eyelashes and trickle into her hair.)

She shifts in his arms, twisting around so that she is above him, her eyes so gentle and lips smiling. Carefully, as if she might hurt him although she never could, she presses her lips to his, mouth open and tongue slipping inside. He groans into her, craving this, every ounce of her love that she’ll grant to him, his hand cupping her cheek and then –

\- Then she’s gone, twirling away across the floor, a ballerina on the stage. She sits at the pipe organ, fingers light across the ivory keys, notes hanging like jewels in the air. They glitter, her voice soaring high above them. He would accompany her if her could. Kiss her cheek and settle on the bench, their hips brushing, the music streaming from his dancing fingers. He’d twine his voice with hers and together they would fly.

He would, but he is so tired, sleep weighing heavy on his eyes. They drift closed, the world fading.

A breath later they flutter open, and she is beside him in his dressing gown, the collar of one of his nightshirts against her throat, tears glistening in her eyes. His lips tingle, desperate, warmth pooling deep inside, arching his neck. She kisses him ever so gently, fingers ghosting over his cheek. Snatches of her words drift to his ears, borne on the mist gathering around them.

“…love endlessly…with you…should go…hold on…”

He is so cold, heat leached from his bones, ice floating in his blood. And she is so warm, arms wrapped around him, cradling him like a child. And he could die here, in this moment, so safe pillowed on her soft breast, her fingers so lightly stroking the back of his neck. Voice a whisper above him, tender yet mournful, and he could reach to touch those words, grasp them and keep them forever.

“Oh, Erik.”

Now she is pressed to him, and they dance together alone at the end of the ball. Everyone else clears the floor, just for them and the sanctity of the moment, wrapped in each others arms, not waltzing, just swaying and holding, and turning slowly to the murmured notes, a cocoon of velvet. Her sapphire eyes meet him and he feels a smile grace his lips. The last dance. _Their_ last dance, and why that is he knows not. The other instruments fade out, piano left alone enfolding them. Each note so delicate and soft, a slow purity, her eyes searching his and so full of tears of love. Her lips twitch and she leans into him, arms wrapped tight around his waist. A wave of tenderness washes over him, so powerful he could faint for love of her.

His heart tightens, squeezing painfully. A bolt of pain rips through his chest and he gasps, Christine slipping through his fingers. The music thuds to a stop, his own noose tight around his neck and he can’t breathe, his own tomb – room! – spinning before his eyes and if his hand would just move he could find her, could feel her out. Black spots dance across his vision, and he can’t see, can’t breathe, the pain burning through his chest, his arms, cold tendrils wrapped around his heart and it lances through him, every muscle seizing, knees buckling.

Distantly he hears his name (or does he dream it?) and arms wrap around him, breaking his fall and still he can’t breathe and _where is she_ and his heart spasms and it’s all pain, pain and darkness and fingers fumbling at his throat. A shiver thrills down his spine, jerking him, and _why can’t he see why isn’t she here why are his lungs burning why_ and _why_ and _why?_

The noose loosens, vanishes, and air fills his lungs. He chokes on it, the breath catching in his throat, and coughs hard. Slowly the pain bleeds away, limbs heavy and numb. Nadir’s face swims before him, pale and pinched. Nadir? What’s he doing here? Where is Christine? He was holding her only a minute ago. Where did she go? She wouldn’t leave him like this. Not his Christine, so good and kind and caring. She nursed him before, when all he could do was drink her tea and sleep, too tired to move and not much wanting to anyway because then she might be afraid of him and he loved having her not fearing him.

(How he wishes he could atone for all he’s done to her. He’s tainted her with his poison, and he’d take it away if he could.)

“Chris…tine.” Her name is broken, torn from his lips and Nadir frowns.

“Don’t try to speak, Erik. You’ll waste your strength.”

He has to speak! Doesn’t the Persian fool realise that? How can he find her otherwise when his body is too exhausted and stiff to move?

Perhaps she is in her room, resting. Yes, she must be. It is good for her to rest. She needs it. She shouldn’t wear herself out on his account. It’s terribly bad for her voice…

Someone shakes him, and Nadir’s voice is hard, worried. “Don’t sleep, Erik. You can’t sleep now. You have to stay awake…” He says something more, but the darkness drowns his voice as it rolls in around him. And Christine is waiting for him in it, her small white hand wrapping tight around his black-gloved fingers.

* * *

Violent tremors wrack Erik’s body as he lies in Mademoiselle Daaé’s bed, shivers of cold and the drug in his blood. Nadir wills them to stop, arms wrapped tight around Erik’s frail body, fingers squeezed between his own. Each breath is a shallow gasp, and every moment he fears that they’ll stop, as they did earlier.

He is under no illusion but that Erik would be dead now if he had not arrived when he did. He might have cracked his skull off the remnants of the organ as he collapsed if Nadir had not caught him. He certainly would have died from _not breathing_ if Nadir had not pulled off his cravat and opened the top buttons of his dress shirt and pressed their mouths together, forcing air into his failing lungs once, twice, until he coughed and gasped and took a breath himself. Another minute or two and the pulse that fluttered beneath his fingers would have faltered and stopped and –

No. He must not think of that. Erik is alive, even if he is desperately ill, and that is the important thing. He is alive, he is breathing, and right now nothing else matters, not even his delirious whispers about “Christine’s room” and “finding her” and the garbled strings of jumbled languages.

(Erik’s head lolling in his arms, weak breaths sucked in through parted lips, sightless eyes slipping closed. The soft whimpers of pain as his limbs spasmed, fingers twitching on the floor. He tried to keep him awake. It is unwise to let someone sleep with so much morphine in their veins – they might simply forget to breathe. But no matter how much he shook him and slapped his maskless face he could not rouse him.)

He should write letters to the life-saving societies. If not for their ceaseless promotion of rescue breathing Erik would have died. The very thought makes Nadir feel ill. He cannot lose Erik. Not now. Not after everything.

(He will. He knows it. Erik’s heart is failing, he’s said as much himself, and this latest incident with the morphine will serve to hasten it. He’s seen the evidence of it, too. Sat with him as he slept off three earlier attacks, soothed his half-delirious ramblings as he did in Persia so many years ago. So he knows what’s coming, but knowing it doesn’t mean he has to accept it, and doesn’t make the very thought any easier to bear.)

Another tremor hits, harder than the last, and Nadir presses himself as tight as he can to Erik’s back, hanging on every ragged gasp, murmuring about anything he can think of to make him hold on, to make him fight. Music, the Opera, Ayesha, Christine Daaé - reminding Erik of every story he’s told of her over the last weeks, every time he’s spoken of her with such heartrending tenderness in his voice, and he swears that she’ll come back to him with the invitation, though he knows Erik believes she won’t. She has to come back, she must, and he’s tempted to find her and bring her back himself, the Vicomte’s protests be damned. Anything to make Erik fight a little longer, because he’ll be dead soon enough, and surely her fiancé could not begrudge her comforting a dying man? He didn’t strike Nadir as that sort, no matter the strength of his dislike for Erik.

Something must surely work, because eventually Erik’s breathing eases and the tremors subside and he sleeps peacefully, beads of sweat gathering on his forehead and throat that Nadir gently dabs away. And Nadir maintains his careful vigil, forcing careful trickles of water between those cracked, thin lips, and whispering every prayer that he knows. Several times those glistening eyes open, roving unseeingly to focus on something known only to him before drifting shut again.

It is many long hours later when Erik truly stirs from his unconsciousness, pain clear in every line of his being. Nadir props him to retch off the side of the bed, tuning out the shuddering breaths that remind him how short time is. But there is nothing to come up, and Nadir forces him to drink some tea, rubbing soothing circles on his back as if he were Reza, all of the time fighting his stinging tears of gratitude. For a long time neither speaks, Erik too busy trying to catch his breath, until he whispers, “She wasn’t here, was she?”

There is no need to ask who _she_ is, the words twisting Nadir’s heart and he shakes his head. “No.”

Erik sighs, the strength bleeding from his body. And his voice is ever so soft when he murmurs, “You should have let me die.”

_I’m not losing you a moment before I have to_ , he longs to whisper in return, but somehow he doubts if Erik would appreciate the sentiment. As it is he stays silent, and Erik passes out shortly after, wearing his mask again at his own insistence. ( _I might be dying, but I would prefer if I did not lose_ all _of my dignity_.) He lays him gently down, brings the bed covers up to his chin, and smooths a hand over his thin hair, all the time praying that Erik doesn’t remember a word of what he’s said when he wakes again.

Sleep won’t come this night. Nadir knows that. So he lights every candle that he can find, and settles in to wait, his fingers wrapped tight around Erik’s. It is best not to leave him alone. Not now.

**Author's Note:**

> Two songs helped in the writing of this fic, which I highly recommend. 'Lille' by Lisa Hannigan and 'Last Dance' by Sarah McLachlan.


End file.
